


The Poisoned Cup

by cesau



Series: Duma Faithful AU [1]
Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Gen, M/M, Soul Selling, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-25
Updated: 2017-08-25
Packaged: 2018-12-19 18:46:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11903943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cesau/pseuds/cesau
Summary: "Will you offer yourself up to Lord Duma?"During the mission to rescue their allies at the Southern Outpost, Forsyth and Python are captured and sent to Rigel. The Duma Faithful are ever looking to expand their ranks.





	The Poisoned Cup

It was strange, the way memory worked.

Forsyth clearly remembered the day he'd decided, in all of his childish confidence, that he and Python were going to be best friends. 

They were seven years old, playing by the river outside of their village. It had been bright and hot, an afternoon in the middle of Avistym. He recalled that he had been overjoyed at the heat, because it meant his father was so miserable he didn't even have the energy to protest when Forsyth pushed his books to the side and took off running, desperate as ever to escape his studies. He'd collected Python and dragged him to the river, and they'd spent the entire afternoon swimming and chasing frogs.

Their fun only ended when Python's father came calling, a furious look on his face. That was when Forsyth realized Python hadn't gotten any permission to go out and play – that he had, in fact, snuck out while his father's back was turned. Granted, Forsyth had more or less done the same thing, but he still felt mortified at the thought that he'd upset an adult that _wasn't_ his own parent. The next time he saw Python, he made sure to yell at him for that.

“You can't just do whatever you want!” he chided. “You'll get us _both_ into trouble!”

“You're being boring again,” Python complained. “What are you, my mom? You don't have to nag me all the time.” Forsyth felt his face redden and he balled his hands into fists at his side.

“No one said you had to hang around me!” he yelled. “If you don't like me, then just leave me alone!”

“Sheesh, would you stop yelling? And who said I didn't like you?” Python made a face and turned away. He muttered something under his breath, and then he looked up at the sky and sighed. “I'm not going anywhere.” 

He said it with all the solemn determination that meant it was a promise.

Forsyth hadn't thought much of it at the time. That hadn't been their first argument, and it was nowhere near their last. But in the end, they always found their way back to an equilibrium built on the knowledge that wherever one of them was, the other wouldn't be far behind. It had guided them through their childhoods in the village, through shaky adolescence, into adulthood and the Deliverance. It had led them here.

He looked to Python now, wondering why that memory was the one that came to him in the moment. 

Python stood with one foot balanced on the castle parapets, bow held at the ready, an arrow nocked at the string and hanging loose between his fingers. His hair, the one part of his appearance he'd ever put any effort into, hung dull and matted around his forehead. He had always been lean, but he was downright bony now, and there was a waxen pallor to his skin. His eyes, pitch-black, were difficult to look at. The change, when it came, hadn't taken very long at all.

But he'd kept his promise.

* * *

Letting the soldiers defect while they slept had been foolish, Forsyth knew that. But pushing forward to the Southern Outpost in spite of it had been a noble goal! Sure, it was only himself, Python, and Lukas, but they were more than enough to accomplish the task. Lukas had been confident in the plan, and Forsyth was confident in Lukas, so he hadn't considered the potential for failure. Get in, find their allies, and get out: that was all they needed to do.

It would have worked, if their intel had been accurate.

They were told the outpost was being held by pirates. That much was true. What they _hadn't_ known was that those pirates were allied with Desaix's men, the same corrupt knights who had necessitated the formation of the Deliverance in the first place.

They fought their way through the pirates easily enough and gathered the few allies left in the old fort. Forsyth felt almost proud of how well they had handled themselves, and that was the thought in his mind as they exited the fort and started for the forest – only to find themselves surrounded on all sides by knights on horseback, lances held at the ready.

Even then, Forsyth was ready to fight his way out or to the end as a proud soldier of the Deliverance, but he never got the chance. As soon as he saw the enemy numbers, Lukas ordered them all to stand down. Though he didn't want to, Forsyth obeyed without hesitation – and when he glanced around, he understood Lukas's reasons. The three men they'd rescued from the fort were cowering and weaponless, and Python and Lukas both looked as worn down as Forsyth was starting to feel. The surrender was meant to save their lives.

That was to be the first and only order Forsyth ever regretted having followed.

But at the time, they all laid down their weapons, and the commander of the enemy knights approached with a sly grin on his face. Forsyth recognized him at once: Slayde, the man who had sold out his own allies and kingdom for the position of Desaix's right hand. A despicable excuse for a noble and a knight.

“And what do we have here?” Slayde said, casting his eyes about the group before him. His pleased smirk became almost manic when he caught sight of Lukas, and he let out a disturbing laugh that had Forsyth flinching instinctively. “I recognize you! One of Clive's lapdogs, aren't you? You're the one he had rounding up hostages back at Zofia Castle. Have you no honor, good sir?” 

The last he said with a mocking drawl, but Lukas met his gaze evenly and didn't say a word. Slayde clucked his tongue and motioned to the men behind him, who rode up at once. Almost dismissively, he told them, “Take the rest of them to camp and give them to the Rigelian. This one is mine.”

Forsyth held his tongue as the soldiers dismounted and began collecting their discarded weaponry, even when they were being restrained, but he tried to yell out a protest when the soldiers began to lead them away and Lukas was left alone in the clearing with Slayde.

The moment he opened his mouth, Python shoved into him from the side and sent him stumbling. By the time he regained his bearings, they were too far away for his words to have done any good. He glared at Python, who ignored it, as the soldiers tied their wrists together and again to each other. Then they escorted them, bound, through the woods and back to their camp.

It was a long, tiring walk, and their captors were not shy about yanking on the ropes that tied them together if any of them slowed at all. When they finally reached the camp, they were led inside without any fanfare, save for the contemptuous looks the soldiers there sent their way. Most of their escorts dispersed then, but one stayed behind and took them to a nondescript gray tent. Inside stood a man in a heavy robe. His face was hidden, but his hunched back indicated his old age, as did the wrinkles on his discolored hands when he clasped them together before his chest.

The soldier who had brought them there ordered them to their knees. Forsyth complied, and he was relieved to see the others do the same. He hadn't expected anything else from the outpost soldiers, but Python had never taken well to being ordered around.

Now, Python stared at the ground, expressionless. He raised his head only briefly, and that was to look Forsyth's way. When their eyes met, Python smirked for only a moment, just long enough that he knew Forsyth had seen it, and then his expression shifted back to nothingness and he returned to his feigned obedience.

In spite of their situation, Forsyth found himself calmer than before. Lukas was fine, he told himself. And he and Python would be fine, too. Soon enough, the Deliverance would receive word of what had happened, and Sir Clive would find a way to fix things.

He was startled out of his thoughts by the old man in the robes suddenly speaking.

“What have you brought me?” he said in a raspy voice.

“Soldiers from the Deliverance,” their captor said. “Found them at the Southern Outpost. Sir Slayde thought you might want them.”

“And? Are there any we can use?”

The soldier made a dismissive noise and punctuated it with a sudden kick to Forsyth's side. Forsyth sank even lower to the floor, coughing, but proud that he hadn't cried out. He wouldn't give them that satisfaction.

“Doubtful,” the soldier said. “Not yet, anyway. You know how these 'freedom fighter' types get: all stubborn pride and bravado, ready to die for their cause.” He paused, and when Forsyth found the courage to look up, he was taken aback by the sadistic smirk on the soldier's face. It only became crueler when he noticed Forsyth's stare. “Give it time,” he drawled, looking him directly in the eyes.

The old man hummed in satisfaction. “I'll take them back to Rigel, then,” he said. “We of the Duma Faithful are ever looking to expand our ranks.”

And that was the start of the end.

* * *

Forsyth remembered very little about the journey to Rigel. They stayed in the Zofian war camp for only a day before they were bound once more and set to the road, though at least part of the journey was spent in a wagon this time. There was never a moment they were left unsupervised, and the Rigelians would not let them speak to each other. He knew days had passed before they reached their destination, though he wasn't sure how many. The air in Rigel was cold, the colors around them muted. It all began to bleed together very quickly.

Their destination was an old stone keep in the wilderness. If there were any settlements nearby, Forsyth hadn't noticed them as they trekked the path up to it and he couldn't see them now. His mind was muddled, he was hungry, and his throat was painfully dry. He glanced up just before they passed through the doors of the keep, and his only thought was that Rigel's sky was an ugly shade of gray.

He would come to miss that ugly gray sky before long.

They were barely through one set of doors before they were led through another, and then they were going down a winding set of stairs, their surroundings becoming colder and darker. When they reached the landing at the bottom, Forsyth looked tiredly at what he immediately recognized to be a dungeon. He didn't have the energy to protest as he was unceremoniously shoved into a stone cell, barred metal door clanging shut behind him. His legs gave out and he collapsed onto the dank floor, distantly aware of the sound of keys working a lock shut.

Some part of him wanted to jump up and yell, pull at the bars and demand to be let out. Even he recognized it would have been a pointless endeavor, but it seemed wrong, somehow, to just accept this fate.

Another part of him, heavier and unfamiliar, kept him there on the floor, too exhausted to move. Wary of this new instinct, he nevertheless closed his eyes and let the darkness overtake him.

When he awoke next, he was marginally more aware. He realized, for one, that he was alone in his cell. He pushed himself up off the floor and trudged over to the bars of his cell, looking out in search of Python or the other soldiers they'd been transported with. All he could see was the cell directly across from his, but to his relief, Python was the one housed there. He was splayed out in the corner of the cell, eyes closed, but he was there and he was alive, and Forsyth was grateful enough for that.

Forsyth opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out. It had been at least a day since he'd had any water, and just breathing caused a burning sensation in his throat. He wondered how best to get Python's attention, because it suddenly seemed very important. But before he could come up with any ideas, he heard footsteps approaching, steady and loud against the stone floor.

A pair of boots stopped in front of Forsyth's cell, and he looked up into the pitch-black eyes of a Rigelian man, holding a set of keys in his hand. He glanced down at Forsyth and then placed the keys into the lock of his cell door, opening it and stepping inside. Forsyth hesitantly backed away. The man regarded him with a blank stare, and then he held out a full waterskin.

Suspicion forgotten, Forsyth grabbed it greedily and drank, savoring the cool water as it slid down his throat, easing some of that persistent burn. He imagined he could feel it running through his body, bringing back an energy he hadn't even been aware of losing. That strange, heavy feeling from before dissipated, and he was relieved to feel like himself again.

But he had only just started to get his fill when the man yanked the waterskin away, leaving Forsyth spluttering foolishly. He choked as he desperately tried to keep the last of the water in his mouth, and the man stood and watched him impassively until his fit had passed. Forsyth looked up at him, eyes watering and throat burning for an entirely different reason now, and he hated him. But the man didn't react to the glare at all. He fixed him with that same blank stare.

“Will you offer yourself up to Lord Duma?” the man said with a disturbing lack of intonation. 

Forsyth balked. The question was a ridiculous one, presented with no pretext or enticement. How on earth was he meant to respond to that? Only one way, of course, and he could not understand why he'd been asked at all.

“No,” Forsyth answered.

The man – the priest, rather – turned on his heel and left, locking the cell door behind him. Forsyth watched in confusion as he moved on to the next cell. He couldn't see it, but he heard the routine repeating there, and then twice more. Finally, the priest stood in front of Python's cell, and he entered much the same way as he had with Forsyth.

Python didn't move at first, and the priest refused to touch him. But after a moment, he shuddered and came to, and Forsyth wasn't at all surprised by the relief that flooded through him at the sight. The waterskin was offered and Python took it, and then the priest repeated his line about the offering to Duma. For a moment, Python was still. And then he looked past the priest, past the cell bars, until he was looking directly at Forsyth.

And he laughed. Loudly.

“You're a fool,” Forsyth whispered later, when the priest had gone and he couldn't hear any guards wandering around outside their cells. He was leaning against the bars, head turned to keep Python within his sights.

“It was a stupid question,” Python answered back, voice perhaps not as quiet as Forsyth would have liked. “Come on. Yea, sure, what guy _doesn't_ want to sell his soul to a deranged war god? Sign me right the hell up!”

“Don't antagonize them,” Forsyth warned. Python threw his head back and snorted.

“Forsyth, pal, I don't know if you've noticed, but take a look around: it doesn't matter _what_ we say to these guys.”

“Don't say that,” Forsyth pleaded. “We could still be rescued! We just have to hold out for-”

“For how long? We're way out in Rigel. How's the Deliverance gonna get here? How would they even know where we are anyway?” Forsyth had no response to that, and Python sighed. When he spoke again, there was no bite to his tone, only a sense of resignation. “You always said you were willing to die for this crap, didn't you? Well, here we are. Let 'em do their worst.”

Every time Forsyth had ever reached the end of his rope and considered giving up, every time he'd ever felt hopeless, Python had been there to lift him up again. It was strange, then, to hear Python tell him to stop dreaming. But he heard the more important message, too: if they were going to die – and it was a strange thought, but Python was right and this wasn't the first time he'd considered the possibility – if they were going to die, they could do it on their own terms, with dignity. They could control that much, if they could muster up the willpower.

And Forsyth had always had a strong will.

* * *

At first, they withheld food and water.

Their previous captors had already been doing that, however, and it wasn't as effective a tactic as the Rigelians might have liked. Frankly, even within the first day or so, Forsyth found himself so exhausted he didn't have the energy to say or do anything they wanted. It wasn't even out of insubordination; he was just too physically drained to understand much of what was going on.

But they made sure he was awake every day when the priest returned to his cell and asked him, “Will you offer yourself up to Lord Duma?” And if he couldn't respond past the dryness of his throat, they gave him a single sip of water until he found the strength to answer, “No.”

And he stayed awake long enough to hear the priest make his rounds to the other cells. If those visits were daily, as Forsyth suspected, it was less than one week in when the first of the soldiers broke.

Forsyth didn't know which of them it was. He barely remembered their faces, let alone their names or voices. He'd never spoken to any of them before their capture at the outpost. But on the fifth visit, one of them answered, “Yes.” Forsyth was in disbelief, and he crawled over to the bars of his cell in time to see the soldier trudge by, led by the priest. His gaze stayed directed at the floor, and Forsyth couldn't see what sort of expression he had.

Across the corridor, Python watched with scorn. _Not us,_ Forsyth thought. _That won't be us._

He wanted to speak to Python then, but his voice wouldn't have carried. And since that first day, there was always a guard on patrol just out of sight, but near enough to be heard. So Forsyth kept Python's words from before in his mind, the taunt that they wouldn't be broken.

No matter what it came to, they wouldn't say yes.

* * *

Next, they moved on to a more conventional torture.

Forsyth wasn't the first one they took. They started with one of the other soldiers whose names he couldn't recall, pulled him out of his cell one day and dragged him off. They returned some time later, the soldier stumbling by and looking delirious, dark red staining the back of his ragged shirt. The Rigelians took the other soldier next, and this one didn't come back.

Then it was Forsyth's turn. 

It was two men who came to collect him in his cell – two perfectly human men, not dark-eyed priests. Without so much as a word, they grabbed him by the arms and led him away, through a maze of halls. They took him to a dark, wide-chambered room, bound his hands behind his back, and left him there. The only other inhabitant was the priest from before, the one with the pitch-black eyes who only ever spoke that one sentence.

The purpose of the room was immediately obvious. All manner of painful devices were scattered about, cages hanging from the ceiling, systems of ropes and pulleys, spiked instruments lining the walls. It seemed every space was occupied by some twisted object: some he recognized, some he did not. Forsyth chose to look at the floor instead.

The priest circled him, quickly moving out of sight, and then he felt a light kick behind his knees, making his legs buckle. Kneeling on the floor, he looked over his shoulder only once, and quickly. The priest had pulled the hood of his robe over his head, face completely shadowed, and he held a corded whip in his hand. Forsyth turned away again and closed his eyes.

“Will you offer yourself up to Lord Duma?” the priest asked.

“No,” Forsyth answered. Then there was the crack of the whip and the sting on his back.

The pain was as immediate as it was intense, breaking skin, and Forsyth gritted his teeth as he bore it. The priest asked again, and he answered in the same. It continued until his back was in agony, the space between lashes barely a reprieve anymore, until he couldn't even vocalize an answer and had resorted to simply shaking his head. He was crying out before long, but he never once considered giving in. Not while he could still hear those words in his mind: _Let 'em do their worst._

Eventually, the lashing stopped, even if the pain did not. Forsyth heard the sound of the chamber door pushing open, and he turned to see the two men from before. One of them looked him over dully and remarked, “Shall we bring the last one now?”

Python, they were talking about Python. About subjecting him to this as well. There must have been some well of strength left in him, because without thinking about it, Forsyth was able to rasp out, “No!”

The two men regarded him with surprise, the priest's expression unknowable beneath his heavy hood. He moved to one of the men and said something too low for Forsyth to make out, and the man nodded. That man walked over to Forsyth and crouched down to face him, a curious look on his face.

“You'll take his place?” he asked.

“Yes,” Forsyth answered, again without thinking.

The man nodded and stood, and the priest ushered them out of the room. Then he stood behind Forsyth and reached out his hand, muttering an incantation, and Forsyth felt his back begin to heal. Only partway, and not enough to completely ease the ache, but he thought he actually moaned at the relief it brought him.

And then priest stepped back. Forsyth watched as he readied his whip, understanding dawning only the moment before the lashing began again.

He couldn't have said how long it went on. He had no words for the pain, breaking his flesh anew. He wondered whether it would have hurt more or less without the healing in between, whether that had been the purpose of it. Still, he endured.

Finally, it did come to an end. The men returned and led him back to his cell, then untied his wrists and threw him in. They turned around and spared one glance at Python, and then they left, alone. Before he sank into unconsciousness, Forsyth noted with relief that they'd kept their word.

He didn't think to question why that was the case.

* * *

They kept at the lashings for days, and before long, the last of the soldiers Forsyth and Python had come in with surrendered. But when the same method didn't work on Forsyth, there was a period of two days they left him in his cell and returned to refusing him food or water. After those two days had passed, the men hefted him out of his cell and dragged him away to that dark, open chamber.

It started the same as before. Once there, he was forced to his knees, and the priest bound his hands behind his back. It was then that he began to realize something different was about to happen. The priest approached, hands empty, no whip in sight. With one swift motion, he grabbed hold of Forsyth's hair and jerked his head back, so he found himself staring up at the stone ceiling. Then there was a thick rope wedged between his teeth, a makeshift gag, and he still had no idea what the intention was.

The priest walked away, and when he came back, he held a pitcher in one hand. With no fanfare, he used the other to pinch Forsyth's nose shut and pull his head back again, and then he brought the mouth of the pitcher to his lips and tipped it over.

Forsyth had a moment to worry about the contents of the pitcher, but only a moment, because then he felt the cool taste of water on his tongue and he swallowed greedily. He was in no state of mind to question it, delirious after days spent in thirst.

But his relief turned to panic as the pitcher continued to empty into his throat and he began to choke on the water. He tried to close his mouth, but the gag had been placed there for a reason, and soon he was struggling for air, light-headed from the lack of it and stomach becoming painfully full.

Finally, the pitcher emptied out, and he managed a few horrible, spluttering breaths the moment it was taken away – but then it was back again, and worse still the second time around. Near the end of that second pitcher, his vision began to darken and he lost consciousness for a moment. He came to having fallen over to the ground, water dribbling out of his mouth.

The priest looked at him once, and then kicked him in the gut. He vomited immediately, violently, and the feel of it was only marginally less painful than the bloated sensation he'd had before. He lay there on the floor, shivering, and then there were hands around his shoulders and he was propped upright, and it all started again.

He wasn't sure how many times they repeated the process, but he knew he passed out at least once more. At the end of it all, they asked him their question, and he refused again. Over the coming days, the new method continued, mixed in with the old and yet others. Still, no matter how they tried to break his body, he wouldn't bend his will. He was zealously dedicated to that decision.

People had always been amazed at Forsyth's single-minded determination, once he set his sights on a goal. He'd never thought much of it; the tendency had always been a natural one to him. He used it now, that singular focus, to avoid the pain.

First, it was his pride as a soldier. That was the ideal he held on to, and when the priest began his work, Forsyth thought of training, thought of the Deliverance, thought of the knighthood he was still chasing after. When his focus slipped and that ideal could no longer sustain him, his mind automatically supplied another, something baser and stronger.

He thought of Python. He imagined him there, standing right beside him as the whip dug into his skin or the water filled his lungs. It was almost strange, how easy it was to picture him there with a sidelong glance and half a smile.

“I almost feel bad for 'em,” Python would say. “They've got no idea what they're dealing with. They really think _this_ is gonna break you? Please, I've seen you run drills till you were puking your guts out. I've seen you knocked on your ass in training more times than I could count. This? This is nothing. Not for us.”

And those thoughts never failed him.

* * *

Forsyth should have recognized their new plan the moment it began, but he didn't.

They continued with the water for days, seeming almost determined that this method would be successful if they just kept at it long enough. Or perhaps they simply enjoyed their torture. But he remained steadfast until the day they came to collect him from his cell but _didn't_ take him to the darkened chamber straight away.

Instead, they pushed him across the hall and threw him in with Python.

Forsyth should have known what they were doing from the start, but he was in disbelief. He was pushed through the cell doors and he stumbled and fell, and when he looked up, there was Python, right in front of him. They hadn't spoken since that first night, hadn't had the chance with all the guards around and the half-aware state Forsyth had been stuck in since then. And seeing him now – the stunned expression on his face, the stillness of his body, just as much in shock over this turn of events – Forsyth stopped thinking at all.

He threw his arms around him and buried his face in the crook of his neck and closed his eyes and he _felt._ That was all it was, it was feeling, it was _Python_ , and he hadn't realized how desperately he'd missed this touch until the very moment it was returned to him. How many times had he imagined Python at his side these past weeks, and how had it been so easy? He wondered how he'd fooled his mind with those illusions when the real thing was so indescribably better.

After only a moment, Python was holding him back, and he whispered something into Forsyth's ear: possibly it was a question, possibly it was just his name, but he couldn't have responded anyway. Instead, he tightened his grip.

However long they stayed like that, it wasn't enough. Soon, he was being pulled away and forced back to his feet. One of the men held Forsyth's wrists behind his back, and the other moved to do the same to Python. That was the first moment it really began to occur to Forsyth that there had been a purpose here, something about to change. 

Then they were both dragged out of the cell and forced down the twisting corridors of the dungeon.

The Rigelians took them to the wide chamber, the same as always save for a new installation at its center: a sturdy wooden chair, its only notable feature the leather straps along its armrests and legs. Forsyth only remembered that Python hadn't been here before when he heard the other man's sharp intake of breath.

Still, the only thought in Forsyth's mind was that he'd been lied to: the men had told him he could take Python's place, that they would leave him alone. They'd lied to him, tricked him, and a small voice in the back of his mind that sounded suspiciously like Python told him he probably should have expected that.

Yet to Forsyth's relief, they took Python to the other end of the chamber and shackled him to the wall, then left him alone. It was Forsyth they set to the chair, wrapping the leather bindings around his ankles and wrists, and then the men left and the priest entered. He walked over to the wall and grabbed something off a table there, and then he stood in front of Forsyth.

He held a pair of forceps in one hand. With the other, he reached for Forsyth's right.

Forsyth understood what was about to happen right away. With a sudden panic, he tried to jerk away, fingers twitching, but the restraints were too tight for his movements to have made a difference. He watched with growing terror as the priest pinched his index finger, holding it in place. He clamped the forceps around the tip of his fingernail, cool metal brushing against skin, and he asked, “Will you offer yourself up to Lord Duma?”

Trembling, Forsyth answered, “N-no.”

The priest twisted the forceps, and the pain was immediate. He felt it all, blindingly intense, the pain shooting up straight from his finger through his hand and into his arm, as his nail was ripped away in two quick motions. He screamed, the feral sound of it strange to his own ears.

The priest asked him again, and Forsyth answered. He moved on to the next nail, and then the next, until his right hand was a twitching mess of gore. Forsyth couldn't even feel his fingers individually anymore, the ends of them all just one open, violent, exposed nerve screaming out.

The priest was quiet for a moment, inspecting the bloody, empty beds at the ends of his fingers. The lack of pressure was barely a relief for Forsyth, the cold air now stinging at the exposed flesh. His fingers were spasming without his command. His eyes were half-lidded, dried tears lining his face, mouth slack. The only thing on his mind was the pain, and he couldn't think of anything past it.

“Will you offer yourself up to Lord Duma?” the priest asked. He had to ask twice more before Forsyth even heard him, and even then the question was hard to understand. It hurt so _much._ He'd thought he'd known, but he hadn't, not really. Python was wrong, he couldn't do this, he couldn't-

 _Python._ Forsyth lifted his head, directed his gaze to the chains on the wall, where he could just make out Python still, too far to really see his face but it didn't matter anyway. He thought of that touch, of the sound of his voice in his ear. He didn't need to imagine him when he was standing right there. 

The pain dulled, just for a moment. Mutely, Forsyth shook his head.

The priest nodded. He knelt and took Forsyth's hand in his own, and then he began to chant.

Forsyth screamed again as his hand began to stitch itself back together, the magic working its way under his skin. His nails grew in again, the pain not nearly as bad as their removal but the sensation of it setting off a prickling through his entire hand, an inherent _wrongness._ It must not have taken very long, but when it was done, the pain was a dull echo, and he stared at his hand warily. He was afraid to move it, afraid the agony was just hiding below the surface, ready to flare up again at any moment. 

He needn't have worried. The priest took the forceps in hand, and he started again.

He was more careful the second time around, drawing out each nail with increasingly slow, deliberate movements. Forsyth's voice had given out on him halfway through, so that he was left shuddering and whimpering, breath heavy and head light. When he reached the last nail, the priest spoke again.

“Will you offer yourself up to Lord Duma?”

Forsyth looked over the priest's shoulder, at Python. Eyes blurry with tears, he could barely make out the shape of him, but he was there and it was all the reassurance he needed. He was stronger than this temporary pain. It was like Python had said: _Let 'em do their worst._ He opened his mouth-

“Yes,” Python said, and Forsyth's response died on his tongue.

“No,” he choked out after a moment, but the priest had already turned away. He looked to Python and tilted his head.

“Just let him go, yea?” Python said, an uncharacteristic desperation in his voice. “That was the deal, that's what they told me. I say yes, you let him go. Right?”

“Very well,” the priest said. He turned once more and healed Forsyth's hand again, though Forsyth barely felt it past the ice-cold dread that had overtaken his body, drowning out the pain from before. He stuttered his protests to no avail as the priest walked away, walked to Python, who stared at the ground and refused to look up. He undid the chains around his wrists and bid him stand.

For something that had been given so much weight, the process itself was remarkably simple. The priest uttered some arcane chant, and then he placed the palm of his hand against Python's forehead. Python's entire body shuddered once, and then he was still.

And it was done. The priest stepped back, and Python stepped forward. Forsyth watched as Python moved toward him, head down, unable to see any visible change. Had anything happened at all? And then Python raised his head and Forsyth saw his eyes, the last traces of color narrowed down to almost nothing among the pitch-black that had overtaken them. Just like the priests, the inhuman things, and he realized that this wasn't Python anymore.

It felt like betrayal then, to know that. This entire time, everything he'd gone through, he'd done it only because there had been Python to fall back on. The knowledge that Python, at least, would be okay, the memory of what he'd said and the promise that he would _be there._ That was how it had been their entire lives, Forsyth realized suddenly: they were always supposed to be there for each other.

The creature that had once been his friend stood before him now, and Forsyth wasn't sure what he was feeling. Anger, grief, hopelessness, emptiness: all of it, more than he could name, and it was overwhelming and paralyzing.

The thing reached out to touch him, and Forsyth, in spite of himself, could not move. His mind knew this wasn't Python anymore, but his body didn't flinch at the outstretched hand. When its palm came to rest against his face, Forsyth only registered how cold it was. Still, he didn't move.

The hand against his cheek moved up, fingers running through his hair and resting there, and the thing that used to be Python paused. It looked at its own hand, tangled in his hair, and then it looked directly at Forsyth.

And it grinned.

Something in him broke then, Forsyth knew it as it was happening, because that smile was all Python, that wasn't an _it_ and it wasn't a _thing_ , it was _Python_. No one had else had ever looked at him like that, smirked at him with such amusement and fondness and self-satisfaction all at once, and no one could imitate it, either. He leaned into that touch and closed his eyes and ignored the cold. He felt that last light of hope in him flare up and he gripped it tight.

Python had kept his promise after all.

“I'm not going anywhere,” Forsyth whispered.

* * *

Python had mentioned a deal, before the change. Something the Rigelians had told him, an agreement that they would let Forsyth go once the offering had been made. When all was said and done, the Rigelians didn't mention it, and Forsyth didn't either. He'd meant what he said, and he wasn't going to abandon Python to them.

Immediately after the deal was made, the Rigelians set about moving them from the dungeon. They seemed unconcerned by the fact that Forsyth had never agreed to join them; they must have understood that he'd made his own deal. They understood he posed no threat to them, at least. His only interest was in protecting what was left of his friend.

Forsyth felt no joy at seeing the sky again for the first time in weeks (or possibly more than that; he'd long since lost track of time). He wasn't at all interested in whatever place they were to be taken next, as long as they didn't try to separate the two of them. And they didn't. They were herded together into a caravan and set on the road. Forsyth noted with only dull surprise that the other soldiers, the ones from the outpost who had given in sooner, were there as well. They were barely recognizable for all the change they'd undergone, eyes sunken and black and skin tinted a peculiar violet shade. He tried to speak to them once or twice, but they offered no response.

Python, he spoke to as often as he could. The Rigelians stopped him on occasion, but for the most part, they seemed unbothered by Forsyth's sudden chattiness. Nothing he said was of any particular import, but some part of Forsyth was terrified that if he didn't constantly engage Python, he'd slip away into the same sort of husk the others had become. Python never answered in any coherent fashion, sometimes mumbling nonsense words, but he kept his eyes trained on Forsyth whenever he spoke. And he smiled every so often, which must have meant he was still in there.

Their destination, it turned out, was a military outpost, similar to the Zofian war camp this had all begun in. A Rigelian soldier led the five of them to an otherwise empty tent, and they were joined shortly thereafter by a hooded priest who looked them over briefly and then hummed.

“That one there,” he said, pointing to Forsyth. “He hasn't...?”

“He won't be an issue,” the Rigelian said. “Have you received the report? Some of the findings were...unexpected, but they're calling it a success up north.”

“Then we'll be moving on to the next stage?”

“That's why they're here, milord.”

After that, they were inspected more thoroughly, and then sent away to a group of soldiers. From there, Forsyth began to understand what the next stage was meant to be, as they were sent from battlefield to battlefield against enemies he couldn't identify. Quelling Rigelian uprisings, he supposed, and though they put a lance in his hand, he fought as little as possible. His captors didn't seem to mind, and that was probably fair: after all, Python and the others were ruthless in their assault, so his input wasn't particularly needed.

With the passing of time, Python began to deteriorate rapidly. His rare mumbled words became animalistic grunts instead. His expression was perpetually set in a disaffected stare, regardless of their surroundings. But his eyes continued to follow Forsyth, the last proof of his own will, and Forsyth latched on to that and told himself he was not alone here.

* * *

It was nearly half a year later that they received news of Zofia's invasion. The Deliverance had succeeded in liberating their homeland, and now they were marching on Rigel. In spite of everything that had happened, Forsyth found himself excited at the prospect. It took some time for him to realize the inevitable, which was that if the war kept on long enough, he and Python would certainly be set against their former allies.

He was relieved when, instead of being sent to the border, they were carted off to a remote castle in the mountains, the residence of some high-ranking woman in the Duma Faithful. It seemed unlikely that any significant battle would find its way out as far as this.

But that had been two weeks ago.

Now, he stared at Python balancing on the castle parapets, and he watched the steady march of soldiers begin to crest the hill before them. Forsyth had no idea what had drawn the army out here past the aptly named Fear Mountain, but the soldiers carried the banner of the Deliverance, and it pained him to see it. Python, on the other hand, showed no reaction at all, bow at the ready.

“Do you recognize them?” Forsyth asked. Python turned to face him, head tilted in an imitation of curiosity. “Those men from the Deliverance. They used to fight right by our side. Don't you...don't you remember them at all?”

Python stared at him blankly, and that was enough of an answer. The cold pit that had formed in his stomach at the sight of the Deliverance only grew heavier, and Forsyth turned away. It eased, somewhat at the feel of Python's hand on his shoulder. There wasn't enough pressure behind it that it should have been comforting, but it had that effect all the same. And it was a reminder of what had brought him this far. What he still had left to lose.

Then there was the sound of the battle starting, and before very long they were forced into the fray. More than usual, Forsyth tried to stay to the back, only fighting in his own defense. He quickly lost track of Python, though he assumed he wasn't far off (because he never was).

Soon enough, Forsyth had drowned out the sound of fighting around him, focused only on the lance in his hands and warding any enemies away – until he was pulled out of it by a familiar voice calling his name.

“Forsyth?”

It was strange, the way his body reacted to that voice, like a veil had been lifted and suddenly Forsyth felt as if a part of himself that had been lost was returned. He turned to face its bearer in disbelief.

“Sir Clive!” For a moment, Forsyth truly forgot where he was, as excited as he was to see the commander of the Deliverance. He'd given up hope of ever seeing any of his comrades again back in the dungeon, same as he'd given up hope on most things, and feeling it now was surreal. He knew it came through in his voice, bright and loud in a way it hadn't been for what felt like a very long time.

The relief was clear on Clive's face as well, and there was a moment where Forsyth had the wild thought that salvation was still possible before Clive said, “What are you doing here? Where are the others?”

And then, all at once, reality came crashing down again and Forsyth remembered that this was the enemy. The Deliverance wasn't here to stage a rescue, they were here to fight...and Forsyth wasn't a part of the Deliverance anymore. A desperate cry escaped his throat, and he backed away from Clive, a horrible feeling growing in his stomach. He felt light-headed, hands slippery with sweat around the lance he held.

“Forsyth!” Clive said sternly, his own relief morphing into confused suspicion. “What happened? Where are the rest of the men?”

“Captured, sir,” Forsyth said hoarsely, voice barely above a whisper. The response had been automatic and unthinking, his mind running a mile a minute telling him what was about to happen, and no matter how he tried, he couldn't ignore it. He swallowed past the lump forming in his throat and continued, “They took us to Rigel, kept us in a dungeon. Me and Python and the soldiers from the outpost. Lukas...Lukas never made it that far. They wanted...”

“Forsyth-”

“The others didn't last very long. But we tried, Sir Clive! We did. It wasn't-”

“Calm down,” Clive said, voice low and gentle. His expression changed again, sympathetic, because he hadn't yet realized what Forsyth meant. “I'm sorry we weren't in time to save you all. But we're here now, and we've never been stronger. You can come back now, Forsyth. Mila knows you wouldn't be fighting for Rigel if it were up to you, and I know it, too.”

Forsyth shook his head, that growing feeling turning into something solid, weighing him back down. He was shaking, but he barely felt it now.

“No, sir,” he said. “I can't.”

He felt like he was being torn in two: on one side, his pride and his loyalty to Sir Clive and everything he stood for, the man he wanted to be and the destiny he'd built for himself. On the other was Python, afternoons by the river and nights on the road and the years they'd been building before they'd even known what it meant and a promise made long, long ago.

Clive frowned. “What do you mean, you can't-”

It was only a moment, but he was unguarded, and Forsyth took it. In a split second, he chose his path. He would throw away everything he had to protect the one thing he couldn't lose. And after all, wasn't that the way it should be? Hadn't Python done the same for him?

He lunged at Clive, who pulled on the reins of his horse and avoided the strike at the last moment. After a split second of surprise, his expression hardened, and Forsyth knew he finally understood. Clive drew his own lance up and whispered what Forsyth thought might have been a prayer, and then he drove his heels into his steed and charged.

Forsyth barely avoided the point of his lance, throwing himself to the ground in his efforts. As he breathed in the dust kicked up by his fall, he smiled. A fight between a knight on horseback and a foot soldier was hardly fair, and a match between someone of Sir Clive's caliber and someone like Forsyth...he felt almost giddy as he realized he wouldn't win. Perhaps that was weak of him, but he couldn't feel any shame for it. He could keep both halves of himself, he realized.

And, less proudly, he understood that he wouldn't survive this fight. But there was a part of him that was relieved for even that.

He scrambled back to his feet just in time to dodge another swing of Clive's lance. He sidestepped and drew his weapon, striking in the moment Clive passed him by and missing entirely. The next time Clive came at him, he brought his lance up to parry the strike, but it was clear that Clive's blow had the more force behind it, and he staggered. Twice more their weapons met, and each time, Forsyth was pushed further back and his arms left weaker than before.

Finally, he saw the strike that would meet its mark. He braced his lance anyway, determined that he would not go down without the illusion of a fight, that he wouldn't force his commander to bear the memory of running through a defenseless man. He focused on the point of the lance, time narrowing until it was all he could see, so he closed his eyes and let his mind go blank.

But the weapon never landed.

Instead, he heard the stretch of a bowstring and a loud thud, then the sound of hooves galloping away, leaving only a horrible gurgling noise in the ensuing silence. Forsyth opened his eyes to see Clive splayed out on the ground before him like some broken thing. An arrow was embedded in his neck, bright red gushing out fast and obscene. His eyes were wide open in surprise, arms twitching as if he was trying to move them, but they stayed bent at his sides.

Forsyth could only watch in mute horror as Clive's silent struggle continued for what must have been too long, too long for a body so broken to cling to life when the end was so inevitable. At last, his labored breathing halted and the violent spill of blood calmed. Forsyth turned away and found himself staring right at Python, bow still in hand. There was no expression on his face.

And then he turned and walked back into the fray, as if nothing had changed.

Around them, the battle raged on, unburdened by the loss of one soldier, however important he may have been. Clive hadn't been commanding the Deliverance's forces, Forsyth realized that. He also realized he had no desire to know who _was_ , now, nor did he wish to see any more of his old allies. He felt empty, cold. He understood on some level what had just happened, but the reality of it remained elusive.

He was distracted, moving automatically. The Deliverance's forces soon began to overtake Rigel's, but he hardly noticed. Of course, neither did Python or any of the others touched by the Duma Faithful, still fighting despite their drastically dwindling numbers, and Forsyth had a moment to think that it was almost funny, that the day had come that he actually wanted Python to _stop_ trying. Not that it mattered, he supposed, because the outcome of this battle was becoming increasingly obvious.

From the moment Clive had fallen, Forsyth had stopped feeling. And he barely felt the lance that ran him through at the end, Python not quite quick enough on the draw to save him and Forsyth uninterested in saving himself.

He caught only a glimpse of the man who'd attacked him before he was falling himself. He saw the arrow embed itself into his opponent's side and thought it was only a shame the man hadn't managed to evade it, that he hoped it wasn't a fatal wound.

There was no relief to dying, it turned out. But there was no panic, either. Only a pale acceptance, numb as he was both physically and mentally. He held on long enough that he saw Python standing over him, something just short of emotion in his expression.

And it was strange, because the person looking down at him was too thin, too worn, too pale, too ragged, too empty, but Forsyth didn't see any of it. Before his eyes, his mind supplied the image of what should have been there: Python and his knowing grin and his laughing eyes, surely about to tease him for one thing or another. And Forsyth would get flustered and yell, and it would only make Python laugh harder. The image he saw was the same as they'd always been: the two of them, together. The way it was supposed to be.

In his last moments, Forsyth saw a memory. And he was happy.

* * *

Memory was a strange thing.

Forsyth clearly remembered the night he and Python decided to join the Deliverance, the first time he truly felt the realization of his dreams within reach. Well, more accurately: Forsyth remembered the night _he_ decided to join, and the night Python decided to follow.

It hadn't been a difficult choice for either one of them, he thought. In spite of his pride, Forsyth didn't feel any guilt at abandoning the sorry excuse of a noble they'd taken to calling Lord Dunderhead. Especially not when there was as honorable a calling as the Deliverance out there waiting for him!

So he'd started packing his bags the very night he caught wind of its formation, taking for granted that Python might have other thoughts on the matter. After all, he'd gotten Python out of the village and into the service with only minimal grumbling (minimal for a man of Python's disposition, at least). So Forsyth was mildly surprised at the exasperated look on Python's face when he announced it was time to go.

“Seriously? You're giving up? _You_?” Python said.

“It's not giving up,” Forsyth said, though he wasn't sure whether there had actually been a question there or if Python was just trying to get a rise out of him. “It's moving forward! How are we ever going to get anything done working for a man like that? The Deliverance needs us! We can finally start doing some good!”

“Uh huh.” Python looked wholly uninterested in the idea, and Forsyth just didn't understand it.

“You could stand to show a little enthusiasm,” he said.

“Hey, it ain't my dream,” was all Python had to say to that. But he began to pack, so Forsyth let it go. For a little while, at least.

It was later, on the road, that the thought came back to Forsyth's mind, and he had to ask, “If you don't care about any of this, then why did you come along?”

“Would you have left without me?” was Python's evasive response.

Forsyth couldn't answer that, because he had never actually considered the possibility. It didn't seem _worth_ considering. Instead, he thought back to that day by the river, when they were young. Python saying he wouldn't leave him.

“Do you remember that?” he asked. “That time you promised-”

“Promised? I don't remember there being any promises,” Python said dismissively. Before Forsyth could protest, he snorted and added, “But yea, I remember. It still stands. You need someone around to keep you from getting your overeager self killed.”

“And _you_ need someone to keep you in line,” Forsyth lobbed back with a sigh.

There were...a great number of other things he might have said then, too, except he was certain Python would tease him mercilessly for every one of them. He settled on, “We're better together, anyway.”

That, he knew, would always be the truth.

**Author's Note:**

> "if you ever wanted to write a duma python or duma forsyth scene or fic though I'd love to read that. I love when things get dark :P the only way I could EVER see either of them giving their soul to duma though is if the other was under threat of death if they didn't." <\- The prompt I was given. I'm not sure how it turned into torture porn. ...Sorry about that.


End file.
